By Alpha Amadu Jalloh
Mr. President, I know you arrived back home Monday night like a Nicodemus, quietly, stealthily, through the back backdoor, avoiding the glare of the public eye. You didn’t want the cameras. You didn’t want the people. And who could blame you? After all, Sierra Leone today is nothing short of a tragic comedy, one calamity after another, all unfolding under your watch. You are consumed, Mr. President, not by purpose, not by resolve, not by love for country, but by unending disasters that you neither prevent nor take responsibility for.
Mr. President, can we talk, really talk? How does it feel to be the commander-in-chief of a country where the State House, the very symbol of executive power, goes up in flames? How does it feel to return to a capital blanketed with smoke, not only from burning buildings but from the smoldering hopes of a tired, betrayed population? Did you feel a pang of guilt as you landed in Lungi? Or were you too occupied with your usual foreign escapades and cosmetic diplomacy to notice?
Let’s be honest, sir, fire is now a metaphor for your presidency. Everything is burning, and yet you remain indifferent. When the State House caught fire, where were you? And worse, when the 34 Military Hospital, the lifeline for so many of our soldiers and civilians, went up in flames, what was your reaction? Did your heart skip a beat knowing that only the medical stores were affected? Because we all know what that means. It wasn’t just an accident, Mr. President; it was a cover-up. That fire had intent. It had a purpose. Somebody lit a match to erase evidence. And in Sierra Leone today, it’s no longer news when people destroy the truth before it’s uncovered.
Mr. President, everyone is covering their tracks. And yes, you are too. You’ve done yours. Where are the roads, Mr. President? The ones you promised. The ones the international community funded? Oh, you know the ones I’m talking about, the ghost roads. The invisible roads. The phantom highways that exist only on paper and in your speeches. Millions of dollars have poured into Sierra Leone for infrastructure development. Yet when we ask, “Wae di road dem wey yu don mek?” the silence is deafening.
Our streets are a patchwork of potholes and broken promises. Mr. President, we’ve had enough of the billboards. We want asphalt. We want tangible change. But your government keeps serving us illusions, holograms of progress where none exists. You build flyovers in your speeches, but in reality, you can’t even fix a culvert in Kroo Bay. This is not governance; this is deception.
Mr. President, you didn’t rise to power alone. You had help: power brokers, kingmakers, and political loyalists. And now, you repay them not with gratitude but with positions. You send your friends, relatives, and political cronies to represent Sierra Leone abroad, not based on merit, not based on experience, but as a token of thanks. Our diplomatic missions are now populated with people who cannot draft a communiqué, who confuse diplomacy with Instagram fame, and who see embassy life as a shopping spree in foreign lands.
Do you think the international community doesn’t notice? The IMF, Mr. President, is not fooled. They speak of fiscal discipline, debt sustainability, and budget control, but your administration offers excuses. You lie to them about reforms. You sugarcoat the books. But they’re watching. They know your policies are performative, your numbers cooked, and your promises hollow.
How embarrassing it is to hear that you’ve allegedly confessed to not knowing anything about economics or finance. And yet, you want to sit at the high table. You want to lecture the world on United Nations reforms and pan-African unity. You want to position yourself as a voice for the continent when the continent has far better voices, leaders who work, who serve, who build.
Why not Kagame? Why not John Mahama? Why are you? These are men who stay home to develop their countries. These are men who know when to speak and when to act. Meanwhile, Sierra Leone has a tourist for a president. You gallivant from one continent to the next, collecting awards from shady organizations and taking selfies with diplomats, while back home, everything is falling apart. We don’t need a photo-op president. We need a leader.
You spend more time on planes than at the State House. And when the State House burns, you come sneaking back into the country at 3 a.m., hoping no one will notice. But we noticed, Mr. President. We always notice. We noticed when the civil service began to decay under your watch. We noticed when corruption became policy, when contracts were inflated, and when ministers lived like kings while the people begged for rice.
We noticed when you refused to declare a national emergency on inflation but declared one on things that had no bearing on ordinary lives. We noticed when your government budgeted billions for travel, fuel, and luxury vehicles, while public hospitals went without gloves and essential medicines. We noticed when salaries were paid late, when university students were kicked out for non-payment, and when our public school children still sat on broken benches under leaking roofs.
Mr. President, your administration has failed to inspire hope. It has only taught us how low a nation can fall when its leaders choose self-interest over service. And now, even the World Bank is frowning at your economic management. When donors begin to pull back, it is not because they are cruel. It is because they have lost trust. Trust that your government would channel funds where they are needed. Trust that your policies are guided by data, not desires. Trust that leadership means stewardship, not showmanship.
And let’s talk about the burning issue of health, pun intended. Why was it the medical stores that caught fire at the 34 Hospital? Why not the generator room? Why not the administration block? Why was it always the evidence, the medicine, and the stockpiles that mysteriously vanished into flames? Because we know. We all know. That was not an accident. That was strategic sabotage. That was someone hiding their hand after dipping it into the nation’s blood bank.
Mr. President, how long do we keep quiet? We are a country of silence now. People whisper in corners, afraid to be branded enemies of the state. But Mr. President, let me assure you, history does not stay silent. One day, all these will be written. Every fire. Every lie. Every ghost road. Every dollar stolen. Every disappointment. It will all be remembered.
You can run from press conferences. You can avoid tough questions. You can surround yourself with praise-singers and photoshop reality. But the truth will outlive you. Your presidency is becoming a cautionary tale, one that future generations will study, not to emulate, but to avoid.
So yes, Mr. President, we need to talk. Not because I think you’ll listen. Not because I believe you’ll change. But because the people need a voice. The silence must be broken. The lies must be challenged. The smoke must be cleared. This is no longer about politics. It’s about survival. It’s about a country gasping for leadership.
We are tired of a tourist-in-chief. We want a president. We are tired of press releases. We want results. We are tired of fires. We want answers. So I ask again, Mr. President, “Wae di road dem?” Where is the hope? Where is the leadership? Maybe next time, come through the front door. Face the people. Face the fire. Face the truth.
